


Glimmering lights

by WahlBuilder



Category: Mars: War Logs
Genre: (or rather hypomanic), Bipolar Disorder, Festivals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manic Episode, Pining, Pre-Canon, Technomantic Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28572483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Roy spends the festival days of the Upside in Shadowlair with Tenacity, despite usually preferring to stay away from the city during holidays. He agrees to light lanterns for Charity and people of the Sands, and the whole festival is as unexpected as most things in Roy's life.
Relationships: Roy/Tenacity Williams
Kudos: 1





	Glimmering lights

Roy looks up. The dazzling glimmer caught in lanterns in the appearance of domestication of light sways on humming cables. He hums back to it, tracing currents with his Technomancy.

The Sands during the Upside are no less splendid than Tierville: rituals and festivals are just as important for the people living here as they are for those in more affluent neighbourhoods. Sometimes even more important.

It’s the beginning of the festival week, the first evening, and stalls with festival foods line winding unplanned streets full of people in their best summer clothes. Tenacity is in a yukata, although of course he has to be himself, not just adhere to the custom: it isn’t blue, as is traditional, but bright red with a darker pattern of delicate waves and clouds. Roy is in blue—it isn’t the traditional muted grey-blue either, but a lighter, brighter hue, almost like the Technomantic blue. The yukata is Tenacity’s gift, Roy didn’t choose it himself. There is a pattern of waves also, matching Tenacity’s, but in white and gold. Stroking it, he feels its raised texture. He has renewed his haircut and pinned the long part of his hair up, and the collar of his yukata is pulled away from the nape of his neck. He tells himself that Tenacity’s gaze doesn’t linger on him, he’s only imagining it.

He cannot say the reason for his change of habit of staying away during the holidays. He wouldn’t say he’s nostalgic for dances and songs—for being a part of the host of Technomancers helping along. He wouldn’t say it’s the joy twined with sorrow, firecrackers and tears.

Maybe it is that he knows that Tenacity never lights a lantern for anyone during the Upside.

They go to Charity’s bar first, to ask whether she needs anything: she organises the festivities—and they find her very upset. Not angry, not casually threatening, but sad, almost defeated, the way almost nobody ever sees her.

Roy frowns. If it’s obvious even to him... ‘Charity? Is something the matter?’

She looks at them. She isn’t even fully ready for the festival, with her hair unadorned, though the dark-blue yukata is dazzling enough. ‘I... I didn’t manage to book a Technomancer for our _quartier_.’

Anger rises in Roy immediately. ‘ _Book_? Since when must they be booked? They must come on their own, those b—’ He bites his lips, closing his eyes tight. His outburst is the last thing Charity needs. ‘Sorry. Go on?’

She shrugs. ‘Nothing to speak about. With one thing and another, I was too late... I know Reverend Kindness will be in the Bridge, maybe ey would be able to—’

‘The,’ Roy says without thinking.

Charity frowns. ‘What?’

‘ _The_ Reverend. When you use it like that, it’s a—’

‘Roy,’ Tenacity says quietly.

He clenches his fists. ‘Fuck. Sorry. Doesn’t matter.’

Charity shakes her head. ‘I know it isn’t a requirement, but... It feels right when they do their thing, light the lanterns.’ She sighs—heavy, from her whole heart.

Roy... thinks. He doesn’t hide what he is—he _refuses_ to hide. People just don’t notice. Can he do it? Will he? It is, indeed, not a requirement, the lanterns can be lit up in any manner. But... _Can_ he? Would he have to run and abandon everything to protect them from himself, after it’s done?..

Charity sighs again, turning a short hairpin in her hands.

‘You will have the lights,’ he says.

The look Charity gives him is more like herself again. ‘I wouldn’t agree to it if _anyone’s_ safety will be threatened.’

He frowns again. He certainly can handle lanterns, people won’t be electrified. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

After a moment, Charity nods. ‘If you are certain. We’ll gather here with the lanterns of the last night. What was that about “the”?’

He suspects this might be some distraction tactic, but he’s too riled up to stop himself. ‘“The Reverend” is actually a style, and goes with “the”, you can’t use it like a... A title or rank or position. You also can’t use it as a form of address, though I hear that often. The term of address is always “Venerable”.’

Charity smiles. ‘This is very interesting, I’ll remember it. Thank you for telling me, _mon trésor_. Now shoo, boys, go have fun, the lady isn’t properly dressed yet.’

Roy’s mind is immediately turned to the logistics. He should have asked how many people Charity expects. Twenty, maybe? How should he do it? Individual sparks? A chain?..

Tenacity hums. Roy glances at him. ‘What is it?’

Tenacity sweeps his hair back. It’s wonderfully lush, longer than his hunting cut. ‘Oh, it’s that... I heard the Dowser address important Technomancers as... “Enlightened”? Several times.’

Roy smiles. ‘Yes. And it’s wrong in many ways. These are all translations, you see, made by the Technomancers themselves and presented, long ago, for the use of the public. And a more accurate for that particular word would be “Lit-up”.’

Tenacity makes a face, his nose crinkled. ‘You are bloody joking.’

‘Not at all.’

‘Why the wrong translation?’

‘Because it’s amusing.’

Tenacity frowns. Roy wonders whether Tenacity considers Technomancers pretentious or plain boring. ‘Alright. But why does nobody take offence that he uses the style wrong? I knew that it should be with “the”. Or at least... Why nobody corrects him?’

Roy shrugs. ‘Because it’s amusing.’

‘I guess I won’t understand,’ Tenacity murmurs.

‘You see, it’s...’ Roy takes a deep breath, suddenly suffocating. ‘There is just one term of address. Just one: Venerable. If you know the name, you can drop even that term. But then those not in the Order went and demanded other things, something... Something that isn’t for them. The styles are not for you, they are for the Order and they serve a purpose entirely different from what you think. The Order isn’t the Army or a government ministry, it isn’t like the church in Abundance. There is no hierarchy in that way. So yeah. Sometimes it’s annoying, but most of the time those mistakes are just funny.’

Tenacity is looking at him with that thoughtful expression Roy knows well and doesn’t feel comfortable with. ‘I guess,’ Tenacity says in a low voice, ‘that if others don’t even have a thought to _ask_ whether it’s right or what it means, it’s better to take it with humour.’

‘Yes.’ Roy tilts his head up, exhaling a long breath along with some tension. He feels he can breathe properly again. ‘Yes. Words _are_ important. But nobody will die if someone addresses a Technomancer simply as “Reverend”.’

‘You know, I don’t think you should be going to the Source to ask for another Technomancer. They are definitely busy...’ Tenacity slides his hands into his sleeves.

Roy hooks an arm around Tenacity’s elbow. ‘That isn’t what I’m planning.’ Technomancers must go where others can’t, linger where others won’t. Save each life. Provide comfort and succour. Roy isn’t with the Source anymore, he disagrees with many of their policies and with many opinions—but he’s a Technomancer, he always will be. His duties and his vows remain. Years ago, he came to the Sands himself, and received support he didn’t deserve. These are his people, in a way. His duty. He pulls Tenacity forward. ‘I want a big candied apple!’

Tenacity chuckles. ‘How big are we talking about?’

He smiles. ‘As thick and juicy as your backside.’

Tenacity splutters. ‘Oh, fuck you!’

‘Buy me a candied apple, and we might consider it.’

They are constantly taken for a couple, but Roy doesn’t mind and for some reason Tenacity doesn’t correct anyone. He does grumble over the ‘biggest, juiciest’ apple for a while, which Roy finds rather amusing. Even though there’s quite a crowd and everything is very loud, Roy isn’t overwhelmed. On the contrary, he finds himself overly charged, brimming with energy, thinking and talking about a million things. It’s just so, so good...

‘Roy _bach_ , think we might better slow down?’

He turns to Tenacity, walking backward. ‘What do you mean? Tired feet?’

‘No. I mean, yes. Yes, my feet are tired. Sit down with me?’

He looks around. ‘There, uphill! Come on.’ He grabs Tenacity’s hand, pulling him away from the throng. Yes, yes, need to move. To sit down now for a moment, then to move. Faster. _More_.

He hasn’t been at a proper Upside festival for _ages_. It sounds, smells, looks amazing. He isn’t even thinking about Technomancers or the Source or any of that now. Fuck them all. _Fuck_ them. He doesn’t owe them anything, he doesn’t miss any of their shite—yeah, he’s a Technomancer, but he’s on his own.

The crowd is down there, stretching along the winding streets, spilling over into the square, small lights hanging on each house, the sweet smell in the air, people talking, electricity flowing, _dancing_ through everything—

‘Roy.’

‘Yeah? Oh look! I can see Charity’s bar from here! Think we should go find her again? I hope she’s not—’

‘ _Roy_.’

He turns around. ‘What?’

Tenacity sits down on an empty bench—people are _down there_ , nobody’s sitting on benches, everyone’s having fun!—and looks at him from under his brow. ‘Roy. Slow down.’

Wait, wait, but they are here, they aren’t walking anymore, so what’s with slo—

Ah. He rocks on his heels. ‘No. I’m having fun, for a change. I’m fine. I’m better than fine. You want to slow down—you do that. I’m going back to where the people are.’ He turns around, ready to run down.

‘Roy,’ Tenacity says again, and Roy is getting so, _so_ done with it, right, why did he even choose such a short name, why did he even tell it to someone, Tenacity, Charity, they will never understand, they are probably mocking him, what the _fuck_ do they even know... ‘Please. You are shaking. _Please_. Stay here for a minute, with me.’

He rocks on his heels.

He needs to, _needs_ to move, but more than that, he needs to take off his sandals and walk barefoot, he needs to send excess Fluid somewhere, he needs to _not be himself_.

He turns again to Tenacity and, nearly tripping, goes to him and falls on the bench, clawing at Tenacity’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry...’ It is as though his head isn’t even his and it’s an euphoric, wonderful sensation and he wants more—but he can’t... He knows what it is.

‘Shh, you haven’t done anything wrong, Roy.’ Tenacity’s hand runs down his arm, and Roy wants _more_. Just. More.

He _is_ shaking. Too much energy, too much Fluid, maybe too much sugar. But how can he stop? Especially when he doesn’t want to...

‘Shh, just stay with me.’

He sniffles. Great, now he’s having the vapours. Emotionally volatile, in the next hour he’s going to go from weepy to laughing to angry a hundred times. Idiot. Fucking idiot. And Tenacity noticed and now he’s being patient, he’s always so, so patient...

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Not anything you should apologise for. I think we should call it a day and head back. What do you think?’

He nods, though the movement is greatly restricted by his chin being on Tenacity’s shoulder. ‘Yeah. Also, if I start getting... You know. All seductive.’

‘I’ll stop you. I much prefer it when you are in total control, as you know well.’

He pulls back a little, just to give Tenacity a frown. ‘It’s a joke.’

Tenacity smiles. ‘Yes. A little. Referencing our mutual preferences, so maybe not _entirely_ a joke. I’m a bastard. Must keep up the bastardly reputation.’

 _‘This_ , however, isn’t seduction,’ Roy murmurs. ‘This is all me.’ And he touches his lips to Tenacity’s. Just lightly, even though he craves much more.

Tenacity hums as Roy pulls back. ‘Yes. I can tell it’s you. It’s better when it’s you.’

Roy doesn’t ask what that means. His mind is racing and it might race to places it shouldn’t visit. ‘Take me home, Tenacity.’

Tenacity somehow chooses streets which are not just quiet but... soothing. With trees and whispering sand, metal posts Roy can brush, giving his Fluid out little by little. He is too full. That is, too much. He can’t be full, properly. He knows what he is, now, he went through denial and acceptance a year ago.

He wonders, in a seesaw of moods, what Tenacity would say if he’d known just how crazy Roy really is. How much of a freak, even for a Technomancer. He always was, but… This is different. Not that he would be able to explain properly, without going into an unnecessarily long and winding rant.

He grabs Tenacity’s hand. ‘Will you kill me?’

Tenacity halts in his steps. ‘Why would I?’

Roy tries to replay the chain of thoughts which has led to this, the leaps and bounds and dashes to the side. ‘No, sorry. Forget about it.’

Tenacity’s voice softens when he says, ‘Racing thoughts?’

‘Mhm.’ He shivers when Tenacity rubs his knuckles. Having sex right now... Yeah, as great as it would feel at the moment, he would not feel so great after.

‘You sure you should do whatever you are planning to do? I’ll talk with Charity. No festival is worth sacrificing your health.’

‘No. It would be good. For me, I mean, not only for others. We have days before it. I’ll get calmer.’ He pauses, suddenly unsure of even which language he’s using to talk right now. He tries to replay it in his head—and can’t concentrate. ‘Besides, you’ll be there. You always take care of me.’ Yeah, and Roy uses it. Takes and takes and takes...

‘Roy,’ Tenacity calls quietly. ‘Don’t stay silent. I mean... Please? If it’s dragging you into a bad place. Don’t run.’

‘It’s that...’ He chokes, eyes burning with tears. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Even distant, music and talks and hums and _noises_ all go through him—right through, like he’s a fucking… a broken radio that can’t be made to shut down. ‘It’s nothing. You always give and I only take and you... I’m sorry. I’m selfish.’

‘You know, sometimes I wish you would take even more. Because you so rarely demand or ask for anything that isn’t necessary for you to survive. That aside... It’s mutual, you know? You not only take. You probably wouldn’t believe me right now, but you give me a lot.’

‘I...’ He stops, not knowing what to say. Not wanting to blabber endlessly for hours about whatever it is his mind screams about.

He would have been long dead without Charity and Tenacity, probably by his own hand, probably taking a whole _arrondisement_ with him. The whole city. But why would they want his presence? Who needs a hunting partner that can’t tell when someone is lying? Who needs a friend that can be easily swindled out of money because they don’t know what’s a normal cost of bread? Who needs a person that can be overwhelmed by a sudden touch, a ‘wrong’ texture, a repeating sound?.. He’s nothing but a burden on them. He’s seen wonders, he can hear things most normal people can’t, he can do miracles—but he’s useless in everyday life. Worse than useless. And life is… mostly these everyday things. Not miracles.

‘You don’t believe me,’ Tenacity says quietly.

Roy lets go of his hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine. I’ll go to bed right away and try to sleep.’

He tries not to let his thoughts drift, but it’s so difficult. The world doesn’t feel real around him, even though he can tug at its currents, can re-compose it. A distant shout makes him jump. He can hear Tenacity’s heartbeat better than Tenacity’s footsteps. A lit-up sign flickers on the street nearby. Sewage treatment pumps begin their sixth cycle under their feet. Electricity dances in the air, mapping the world for Roy in a persistent chorus. People on Earth yearned to know what was going on inside the Sun, inside all planets in the Solar system—Roy can give the answer in a matter of minutes, it’s simply a question of sending his awareness on a little trip.

‘I shall make you hot chocolate, if you want,’ Tenacity says, opening the door. His sandals clank on the floor. ‘Or mint tea? Roy?’

He touches the wall, sending a portion of his Fluid down. ‘Chocolate? But not...’ He frowns, trying to remember the word. Signs it. Signs again in a different language. Stops.

‘Sweet?’

He nods. ‘I’ll. Wash my hands.’

Which... He has forgotten about the sleeves. The yukata. The pins in his hair. It’s all Tenacity’s gifts. He has almost nothing of his own. It didn’t matter, then—or rather, it mattered in a different way than property matters here. Money is just numbers. The capitalism part of economic courses was one of the few things Roy struggled with, though it never seemed to show, nobody ever noticed his struggles. He rode on a wave of memorised concepts and logical explications, but never quite _understood_. It all seemed so abstract and bizarre and abhorrent. The Source doesn’t operate on merit of that kind. One’s status isn’t derived from items, isn’t shown through items. Roy is a Technomancer regardless of whether he wears the blue. But the world outside doesn’t work like that. People starve and die because they don’t have enough numbers. Roy knows what hunger feels like.

‘What’s wrong, Roy _bach_?’

He closes his eyes. Tears trickle down his cheeks, unstoppable, as water flows from the faucet down his hands. ‘ _I_ am.’

‘Not for me.’ Tenacity comes closer. ‘May I stop the water?’

Roy rubs his fingertips together. They use a lot of water-related words for Fluid, and for time also, and for sounds, music. It’s all connected. ‘Yes. Sorry. I’m wasting it.’

Tenacity cuts off the flow.

Roy takes a towel from Tenacity, wipes his hands and his face. ‘This is ugly. I’m ugly. I’m sorry.’

‘It will be better.’

‘Maybe. This time. The next time. But it gets worse overall. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine. Thank you for... For taking me away from the festival. I’ll go change.’

‘You look—’

‘No.’ He shoulders his way past Tenacity. ‘No. Don’t say that. Not now. I know what I look like now.’

‘Alright. I’ll bring you chocolate. You are talking fast, Roy.’

‘I know.’ And walking fast also. He knows, he knows, he knows, he knows. But knowing doesn’t help him combat it. He would have sparred now—but the... the usual sparring would only make him more agitated. And what he really wants... Well, he can’t have it.

He takes off the yukata deliberately slowly, focusing on each movement. His muscles aches with the effort. His teeth sting. He would have overloaded a couple of times, but it’s not safe here. Not safe while he’s in this state. He probably wouldn’t be able to stop it. He folds the yukata and puts on sleeping pants and Tenacity’s shirt and climbs on the bed—Tenacity’s bed. He wonders whether he should sleep alone, but decides that forcing himself to behave with Tenacity nearby would be more effective. He wouldn’t get up to pace with Tenacity sleeping right here, would he?.. Probably wouldn’t.

 _‘Voilà_. I didn’t make it too hot either.’

 _‘Merci_.’ Roy takes the mug from Tenacity. The chocolate is excellent. More liquid than Tenacity usually makes, but right now, ideal. And it’s rich, with just enough sweetness to not be too dry, and very smooth. ‘When have you changed?’ he asks, sipping.

Tenacity, only in soft shorts, stretches on the bed. ‘While waiting for the chocolate to warm up. Ah, this is good. If it feels good to go to bed while the night is still raging, it means I must be getting old.’

‘It means being sensible and looking after yourself. And if you getting old means more grey hairs, I don’t mind. Makes you look even more handsome.’

Tenacity folds his hands under his head, smiling with a lazy smile. ‘So I am very handsome already?’

Roy looks down his body: strong and scarred and tattooed, and so very mortal. Each hunt leaving a mark. ‘Yes. You are. And you know it.’ He finishes the chocolate, puts the mug on the bedside table, then bends down and kisses Tenacity.

Tenacity licks his lips. ‘Salt and chocolate.’

Salt? Oh. From his crying. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s alright. Your hair is still up—want me to help?’

‘Yes.’ They are so close that each of Tenacity’s words ghosts over Roy’s lips. He can see the red tint of Tenacity’s brows.

Tenacity reaches up and around, and Roy feels him removing the hair pins. It brings instant relief, and his hair falls onto his shoulders, spills over. Tenacity rakes it with his fingers. Roy wonders whether some trines are like this, whether they have this. Casual touches that bring assurance and comfort without the burden of words.

‘I’m glad you are here,’ Tenacity murmurs, catching a strand of Roy’s hair in his fingers. ‘For the Upside.’

‘I’m going crazier and you are glad?’ He pushes himself away, and lies down on his side.

Tenacity sits up, takes the blanket folded at the foot of the bed. The bedframe creaks. Tenacity covers Roy with the blanket. It is heavy and soft. He doesn’t know how to take it. Could it be that Tenacity noticed that he doesn’t feel well right now without a cover, despite the warmth? All the layers he always wears...

‘First of all, you are not crazy.’ Tenacity settles back on the pillow, and it rustles, and his hair falls onto it in a heavy wave. ‘Second of all, I’m glad that you are here. I always... I’m just glad.’

Roy turns, facing away from him, wrapping himself in the blanket. Why would anyone be glad that he’s nearby? Aside from... Maybe someone he works for. For practical matters. But that’s not gladness.

‘Do try to sleep. Good night, Roy.’

‘Night.’

Ungrateful, that’s what he is. Useless and ungrateful. He should have never come here. He should have left Shadowlair immediately, right when he escaped from the Source, and never returned. He should have never let Charity help him, should have never let Tenacity help. Should have never...

He turns around again and moves to Tenacity’s side. Tenacity is an active sleeper, but he is calmed if he can hold Roy. At least there is _some_ use in his presence.

***

Roy wakes up earlier than Tenacity, and slides out of bed to make breakfast. He is surprised he could sleep at all, and woke up briefly during the night only a couple of times with few intrusive thoughts. He feels a little more in control—more himself. He is ravenous but doesn’t notice the taste of the sandwiches and salad he’s made for two, which isn’t ideal but he’d take what he can have.

Tenacity emerges to the kitchen wonderfully dishevelled and grumbling about the summer heat. Clad only in shorts.

Roy gives him a mug of mint tea and asks whether he’s going to put on something.

Tenacity cracks open one eye and says: ‘The golden shorts.’

The memory of Tenacity wearing _those_ is both funny and lovely, and Roy can’t hold back a chuckle.

They stay inside the whole day: the heat only mounts and Tenacity is plastered diagonally across the bed while Roy tries not to let his own brain run wild. He reads _The History of Shadowlair_ aloud to Tenacity, as dramatically as he can. They have cold tomato soup for lunch. Roy both wants to eat and doesn’t want anything, yet tries not to show it. The soup tastes nice, though.

They do some laundry. Roy starts melting in the afternoon heat also. He can’t risk using Technomancy to regulate body heat: he’s too charged up and Tenacity might get zapped.

He finds something to occupy his hands with, though: running ice cubes over Tenacity’s back. Tenacity makes lovely noises and squirms, especially when Roy glides the cube over his nape. Roy finishes this very much not intellectual activity by taking an ice cube into his mouth, pushing Tenacity to roll onto his back, and kissing him until it melts and their tongues are numb. But as he lies in Tenacity’s arms and the day rolls closer to the night, he can _feel_ himself slipping. He can feel something in himself shifting, his personality changing.

‘Tenacity...’ he calls, and hates the pitiful tone.

‘What is it? Is it bad?’

He closes his eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘I’ve got you.’ Tenacity’s arms close tighter around him, providing some grounding, even though Roy continues slipping, his head and his body as though not his own.

‘No festival today,’ he murmurs, stroking Tenacity’s forearm. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I want to spend time with you—but not at the cost of your health or peace of mind.’ Tenacity rakes his hair. ‘Tell me what you are thinking about.’

‘Everything...’ He turns, pressing his face to Tenacity’s shoulder. Tenacity is emanating enough heat that Roy can feel it. Spirits, holding him is probably uncomfortable, Roy is always generating too much heat himself.

‘Any particular thread of thought nagging at you? Maybe talking would help get rid of it and you would fall asleep.’

He presses his forehead further and further into Tenacity’s shoulder, feeling bones. Aware, too aware of Tenacity’s strength and Tenacity’s mortality.

‘Ever...’ He swallows, hoping he would sound normal, that at least _something_ would be normal even though he isn’t normal himself. ‘Ever heard of the Sun Run?’

‘It is some kind of game among our Technomancers, isn’t it?’ Tenacity says casually, because he’s so good, he’s the fucking best and Roy doesn’t know how he might ever deserve such care and consideration.

‘Yes,’ he says. Tears roll down his nose. Tenacity can probably feel it on the naked skin. ‘Yes. But it is more. It happens a couple of times in a year. One of the few times when the whole Order gathers. During principal holidays, everyone is at their... Their places of duty, you know, in other towns and wherever... But for this, everyone comes—everyone who’s able to. It’s for us... For _them_. For the Order itself.’

‘Held outside, isn’t it?’

‘Yes! Around the dawn or in the afternoon, on the outskirts of the city... There are no teams, exactly, but everyone usually forms them—it’s natural. Everyone takes part. One of the elders in the Council throws the ball into the throng... No, wait. The thing is, a point is made—marked—where the ball should be brought, and before the start, the starting area is filled. You can get anywhere you want, on the ground or somewhere higher—but not further to the objective than the starting area. So, a member of the Council throws the ball in—and it begins. Usually, everyone knows if someone is quick or something like that. Someone catches the ball and runs. It’s not easy to explain: it would probably look like a mess but it’s glorious chaos. Some run over rooftops, some climb up on the buildings, there is tousling and tackling and teamwork: the fastest runner climbing up while their team-mates throw the ball from one person to another, not allowing other teams to intercept... Yeah.’

‘What about the sun?’

‘Oh yes, the sun part. It’s an exercise in Technomancy, as nearly everything is. Everyone is shielded, and of course those who do it best are designated as... As... Tenacity?’

‘Mm?’

 _‘Hold_ me.’ His lips tremble. He hates, hates, _hates_ himself so much.

Tenacity’s arms tighten on him even more—yet he’s _still_ slipping.

He cries bitterly, silently, gasping with hot breaths, a headache blooming, yet he’s unable to stop. Self-hatred burns him. But at least it exhausts him and he fades into sleep.

***

The next day he wakes up with determination. Determination to not make a spectacle of himself, to not be a burden on anyone. To keep his emotions under control. Keep everything under control.

He cooks breakfast, eats his part. He grabs Tenacity’s heavy jacket and some money from a saucer by the door, and goes out. Walking briskly. He’s in control. For now. He’s wound so tight, but at least he’s controlling himself.

He buys some apples, and returns to the sight of Tenacity poking the omelette, then perking up, looking at him. ‘Hey. I wondered where you’d disappeared. How are you feeling?’

He unloads apples into a basket. ‘Better. Thank you. Eat the omelette! It must be cold already.’

‘You are wearing my jacket.’

He lingers. ‘Is that alright?’

‘Perfectly. Will you have tea with me?’

He takes the jacket off, hangs it on its place, washes his hands. Starts heating up a pan again. ‘I’ll have another breakfast with you.’

He makes another omelette, with a different set of spices. For some reason, Tenacity has never commented on his... voraciousness. Roy is grateful.

He eats the omelette quickly while Tenacity fills mugs with tea, then Tenacity washes an apple, and starts peeling it. He manages to make one unbroken curl of the peel, red-yellow, and arranges it on the saucer. Like a flower. Then he cuts the apple into slices, pours honey into the middle of the ‘flower’, dips a slice into it and holds it up. ‘Want some?’

Roy takes it from him. ‘Thank you.’ It tastes incredible, he isn’t sure why. It’s just an apple with honey—yet there is something of a kiss in it. Tender and thrilling and raw.

Or maybe it’s just his heightened emotional state.

He catches Tenacity looking with lips parted slightly. So Roy finishes the apple slice, then leans over the corner of the table and kisses Tenacity, sharing the sweetness. Tenacity’s hand brushes his shoulder and he hears how fast Tenacity’s heart is beating. Tenacity’s beard is soft.

They could make love now. But maybe _this_ is a type of making love also.

Roy returns to his seat and takes another slice. Then notices that Tenacity is watching him still. ‘What is it?’

‘I like how your hair is braided,’ Tenacity says.

It is a simple, loose braid, and Roy’s first urge is to say just so—but he doesn’t want to diminish Tenacity’s sentiment, his enjoyment of it. So he smiles in reply. ‘Thank you. I think we could go to the festival tonight, for a little while.’

‘If you think it will make you feel good,’ Tenacity says, taking another apple slice. ‘We’ll see by the afternoon, yeah?’

‘Yes. I’d like to check buttons on your jacket, the inner ones feel too loose. Could you read to me while I do it?’

‘Sure!’

It isn’t about the text itself, although something tightens in Roy’s chest when Tenacity picks _The History of Shadowlair_. It’s about Tenacity’s voice, its low warmth, Tenacity’s natural accent. It’s about existing in the same space, together. Tenacity makes little asides about places described in the text.

When Roy finishes with the jacket, he folds it carefully, puts it away and stretches across Tenacity’s lap, and closes his eyes when, without a pause in his reading, Tenacity starts brushing Roy’s hair with his fingers.

Maybe this is what some trines have.

They survive through the worst of the heat with more cold soup and holding each other, even though it’s a bit uncomfortable. Tenacity’s quiet snoring lulls Roy into napping also.

When he wakes three hours later, he’s still calm. ‘Yeah, I’d like to go out for the festival tonight.’

‘Then we’ll go.’

Tenacity helps him dress up, pin his hair. There is raw intimacy in it also, both troubling and wonderful. Roy watches Tenacity’s hands on his own body, smoothing down the yukata, looks up. ‘Do you see me as a woman?’

Tenacity looks up also, and the confusion on his face is so obvious, so naked that Roy doesn’t have to struggle to decipher it.

‘No,’ Tenacity says, meeting his gaze in the reflection. ‘Since you aren’t one.’

‘Even though you saw me...’

‘Pre-op?’

‘Yeah.’

 _Saw_ is putting it mildly. That Roy had the operations at all is almost entirely due to Tenacity. Yeah, Tenacity framed it as bigger payment for a job they did together, and _‘I just happen to know doctors...’_ and such... And Tenacity was with him through both operations, then after. Bringing Roy everything he needed, be it ice, painkillers, tea, or comfort.

‘How you are built doesn’t make you a woman. Or a man. Or anything. People are built a million different ways. You know that.’

He knows. And it’s not that this is an issue—but... Sometimes...

He meets his own gaze. ‘I’m not exactly a man either.’

‘And? It’s not one or the other, you know that also. You are you. Majesty.’ Tenacity kisses his nape.

But what _is_ he?..

He drops his gaze. ‘I’m sorry. Just wandering thoughts. Are you ready? I’d like to go to Tierville.’ He turns in Tenacity’s hands.

Tenacity arches his brows—it’s always a fancy sight, because Tenacity has fancy brows. Also the fact that he’s just slightly shorter always amuses Roy. ‘Tierville? Alright. But if you feel bad, we are leaving immediately, yes?’

‘Yes.’ He kisses Tenacity’s soft mouth. ‘Yes.’

Tierville is louder than the rest of the city in every way: sounds, colours, scents—but sounds most of all. More people, dressed more colourfully. Yet it all comes to Roy as though from behind a curtain of white noise—which is good, he supposes. He can enjoy it without getting off his shit.

He wanders off, content to simply absorb the sounds—then, he feels it. _Him_.

‘Temp—’

He turns around.

The crowd gives space to the man in a blue yukata with a long white cane, though whether or not from respect, Roy can’t tell.

There are no wires but the connectors are visible, the haircut drawing even more attention to the notches on the silvered temples. Yet more than the connectors and the blue, Roy thinks, the giveaway is the bearing. The proud stature, the noble yet otherworldly air, a bit of child-like wonder and confusion in the tilt of the head. Roy wonders whether he looks like this also when he isn’t controlling himself. Whether he looks like this to Tenacity.

The eyes don’t watch him—unseeing, they stare into middle distance—but a Technomancer doesn’t have to have sight or hearing or a sense of touch to recognise another Technomancer. Technomancy is a sense in its own right.

Roy watches both of the Technomancer’s hands fly up: it isn’t merely a gesture but almost an instinct. And he shouldn’t answer it. He shouldn’t.

But he must.

‘My name,’ he says quietly, ‘is _Roy_.’ And he touches those hands, and pushes forward his name in other languages also, the languages of his birth, his kin—his own, native. _Crimson-King_. He’s chosen it himself.

He drops his hands.

‘I’m sorry...’ There is pain in that quiet voice.

 _No_ , Roy wants to say. _You are not. I was so alone but you and all other mentors didn’t come to help me. I never belonged._

He turns his back and starts walking, faster and faster—his ankles ache from it. The crowd parts—he doesn’t know why. Maybe something in him pushes them away.

He’s almost running—when he hears a distant scatter of firecrackers—and Tenacity’s heart picking up pace. It’s so painful, like a punch, spurring Roy’s own, that Roy has to stop and rub his chest. Then he looks around. Lights deafen him, bright blue and red and yellow, and he tries to feel for Tenacity. There are so many people, so many _things_ —but he locates Tenacity. And breaks into a run truly.

It is difficult to calm Tenacity’s heart when his own is pumping so fast, but he tries, reaching across the distance while he moves. At least it’s not a long run. He finds Tenacity in a small yard: sitting heavily on a crate, both hands holding his head.

The sharp smell and wisps of smoke still hang in the air.

Roy approaches quietly. ‘Old Hound.’

Tenacity shudders. A low sob falls onto the ground. ‘Roy.’

He comes closer. Their sandals touch. Tenacity looks up at him, and his face is naked, the expression tender, brittle, as though it might break into a grimace any moment. His gaze is not entirely here. The reflection of too many lights dances in the grey-blue eyes.

Roy bends over him slightly, shielding him from light, and runs his fingers into the heavy mane, sends infinitesimal charges through the brain to chase away the clinging tendrils of the past. ‘Do you want to leave?’ he asks. He wouldn’t take the choice out of Tenacity’s hands and right now he can trust Tenacity to not try to put on a brave face.

‘Yes.’ Tenacity’s eyes flutter closed briefly.

Roy feels his heart slowing down—their hearts beating in sync together. He can hear Tenacity’s lungs drawing in air, his blood rushing through his body. He wants to take away all the suffering and pains, and replace them with calm.

He bends down and presses a kiss to Tenacity’s forehead. ‘Then let’s go.’

He guides Tenacity back home by the hand, choosing quieter streets. Listening to Tenacity’s heart and singing to it to calm it. He draws, little by little, all the excess charge, all misfiring impulses out of Tenacity, and sends them down into the all-forgiving ground.

When they step over the threshold, Tenacity stops. Roy turns around. Tenacity looks at him from under his brow, but it isn’t intimidating. Roy sweeps that one curl that usually falls out of place, back from Tenacity’s forehead.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tenacity murmurs, his voice low and his tone broken, tired.

Roy presses another kiss to his forehead. His skin is hot under Roy’s lips. ‘I’m not upset with you. Do you want to go to bed?’

Tenacity nods. Roy can tell he’s not yet entirely here: his gaze jumps from one thing to another, his fingers curl over something, most likely the memory of his rifle—there is no luxurious composure that often exudes from him.

Roy touches Tenacity’s nape—a shudder runs through him, and his gaze stops on Roy. ‘I’m sorry.’

He kisses the corner of Tenacity’s mouth. He knows that touching soothes Tenacity. ‘I think neither of us should be lost in the festival until the last day. Let’s get you out of these clothes.’

He helps Tenacity to undress. Tenacity’s shoulders are tense, his body still expecting an attack though his heart pace has almost returned to normal. Roy wants to help more: he could warm his palms and rub into Tenacity’s body but he isn’t sure how well such an offering might be received. Besides, the air is hot enough without his burning hands.

He does press his lips to Tenacity’s shoulder once the yukata is pushed off of it.

Tenacity tilts his head to the side. ‘Roy... _Mawrhydi_.’

He kisses closer to Tenacity’s neck. The world outside, around him is muted by Tenacity’s presence, and Roy wants more of it. Wants to run from everything into this sensation, into Tenacity’s heartbeat, the flicker of electric signals in Tenacity’s nerves. The way Tenacity breathes out his name.

When Tenacity does that, Roy feels like this name is truly his.

‘Do you mind?’ Tenacity murmurs.

‘Mind what?’

‘Being idle for a couple of days.’

He rests his forehead just under Tenacity’s nape. ‘It’s good—to not have to do anything in particular. It’s a luxury, to just _be_.’ He runs a thumb over a scar on Tenacity’s left shoulder blade. The texture is raised. There is a dusting of freckles above it, on the shoulder.

This sensation like he’s dying—is this love?

This overwhelming, throat-constricting need to end suffering; this desire to protect… It is different from his vows. There are things he must do because they are right—because he must. If he waited until the mood struck, until he felt kind, he would never do kindness.

But this despairing _feeling_ , this ache rending his heart—he doesn’t know it with anyone else, at least not consistently. He might be overwhelmed by injustices of the world, by pain and suffering, and strive to undo it—but it comes and goes, that feeling for others. Sometimes he must not allow himself to feel at all, sometimes he simply… doesn’t feel. However, with Tenacity, it’s almost always here. Roy hears that bastardly drawl and another accent buried underneath it; he hears the heartbeat he knows as well as his own—and he aches.

Is this pain love?

***

He gets up in the morning with a goal in mind, leaving Tenacity still asleep. Remembering Tenacity’s worry, he finds a piece of paper and writes: _À chez Charity—_ and leaves it on the kitchen table. He takes Tenacity’s jacket, finds a pair of gloves. They are too thick and too broad and the fingers aren’t long enough, but he isn’t comfortable to go without.

The streets are quiet. The festival is turning to its conclusion, and it’s not that people are tired but it’s that the most important part is coming. Even those who don’t or can’t participate in the entire length of it, come for the last days—the last nights. At the Source, these become more sombre days for acolytes and full coenobites alike. They have their own dead to remember and their own duties to perform.

Their dances to dance and songs to sing.

He pulls a glove off of his left hand and touches the railing of the bridge leading to Charity’s place, pushing the accumulated minuscule rust particles off, then puts the glove on again.

Aurora will ever stand as long as Technomancers are in it. Shadowlair won’t fall while Technomancers can sing.

People don’t know how much of a literal truth it is.

The various city services keep the city stable, the systems working, structures standing; renovating, re-building, adding, repairing when needed. But the Technomancers help the process: as they walk, dance, sing through the city, through other towns, they repair those in minute ways. It’s almost subconscious, a learnt instinct more than an exercise of power, a balance between necessity of losing excess charge and the feeling of connectedness, the understanding of duty.

The world is repaired, re-newed, re-created with each breath, and new things are helped along.

He wonders how Technomancers in other Orders are. Do they also do it? Do they also feel the need, almost a bodily need, to do it? He knows the Auroran Order is perceived as pushing, breaking, revolutionising—going beyond while leaving behind. But it’s too simplistic a view.

‘Roy? Do you want anything, precious?’ Charity’s voice draws him out of his thoughts.

‘As a matter of fact, yes, I do.’

Charity sits up, puts out her cigarette. It rustles against a dish Charity is using as an ashtray. She’s wearing a black shirt with a silver trim at the collar. ‘Anything you need, precious. You had breakfast?’

‘Not yet. Waiting for Tenacity.’

Charity snorts. ‘The big lug. What do you need, Roy?’

‘My box,’ he says simply.

Charity is quiet for a heartbeat. ‘You don’t need to do it, honey,’ she says, and her voice is gentle—which makes him want to run. He doesn’t know why.

‘I want to. It will be alright.’

The chair creaks as Charity gets up. ‘Your call, Roy. Do you need the rest?’

He did consider ‘the rest’. But he doesn’t feel... ready. Not yet. ‘No. Just the box.’

Charity goes to the bar stand and around it to a door that leads to the staff’s side of the establishment. It’s a space that smells of sand and electricity, a bit of water on rock. Roy pulls a glove off again, touches the doorframe to push away excess moisture from the walls.

Charity goes to a small room in the back, stacked with various necessities in crates and boxes, and pushes a piece of red cloth off of a small safe. Roy looks away as she opens it, although it is more out of politeness: he can hear the ticking of the locking mechanism inside it, and if he wanted, he could open it just by memory of those sounds.

He didn’t know that Charity keeps it in a safe.

‘Here you go, honey.’ Charity’s boots creak as she gets up.

He accepts the box with two hands—it’s heavier than he remembers. For some reason, he always mis-remembers its weight.

It’s not that big: it can easily fit in his flat palm, though it’s not easy to hold like this.

He saw popular depictions of the Colonists’ items and interiors—puzzlingly untrue, considering that there are so many real things not exactly hidden away from all people. Yet, the depictions of pristine—cold, immaculate, _inhuman_ environs are abundant. What an insult—to reduce human experience to scrubbed-away slick shapes bearing not a jot of human presence! A human instinct is to adorn and beautify. To claim otherwise is to not know human nature at all.

The box he holds is a rebellious counter to that untrue view. He strokes the lid, on which, in darkened brass, three lightnings of shimmering, electric blue made in cloisonné, entwined, form a circle of light. In its centre, three petals, red, blue and white, are arranged in a triangle. It dates to pre-Turmoil time—in many places this small box would fetch a fortune. But things themselves, to Roy, hold no value—the imprint of people who made them, owned them, cherished them _does_. This box passed from one Technomancer to another—until it’s come to his hands.

This box isn’t something he took with himself on his run—none of the items in his possession that stay in Charity’s safekeeping are. Yet, with years, they drifted to him—the result of the inevitability of what he is, he supposes. A great comfort, those things.

He runs his fingers over each glossy enamel part, each ridge, each of the three hooks that serve as clasps, all the ornaments—all the small dents and scratches, keeping, in their grooves, the warmth of hands.

He looks up at Charity. ‘Thank you.’

She smiles. ‘Don’t mention it, honey.’

Roy backs away—there is not much space to turn. ‘If possible, ask the people who want to come to not bring fully paper lanterns,’ he asks. ‘They are beautiful—but if they catch fire…’

‘I’ll send word.’

Charity looks tired. She’s ruthless, she can do and did what Tenacity might talk about but wouldn’t attempt—but people aren’t born cruel. Roy hopes that what he is planning to do, will bring her comfort also.

‘I shall light all of them,’ he promises. ‘However many there might be this year.’

‘Thank you, Roy. See you on the last night.’

On the way back, Roy buys half a dozen of fresh bread rolls and eats two right away, the rest tucked in a bag under his arm. When he returns to the flat, the scent of apples tells him that Tenacity is awake and cooking breakfast. Roy toes off sandals, returns Tenacity’s jacket to its place, goes to the bedroom and leaves the box on the windowsill, then goes to the kitchen. ‘I have rolls.’

Tenacity flips a pancake. He is wearing a skirt that ends just above his knees, patterned with orange lilies, and muscles of his back roll as he continues his cooking. ‘Thanks! And thanks for leaving a note. Hungry?’

‘Always.’ He washes his hands, sits down on a chair and watches.

If ‘domesticity’ is taken to mean something mundanely familiar and comforting in its details and familiarity, then Roy’s domesticity for a bigger part of his life was an huge kitchen with pans wider than he can spread his arms, and always someone cooking something in amounts that he now knows to be unusual for most people outside the Source; for a good portion of his life, it was a big hall with mismatched tables with long benches, sitting cushions arranged every which way, in sets and in rows, and always someone snacking, regardless of the time. His kin often don’t sleep the way people—outside the Source—are expected to, and he ventured to the dining hall himself during his mid-night waking more times than he can remember. Domesticity was peeling chicory into a big enamelled bowl in a group of three while another two werecooking a stew, and one of them was starting a song while others joined—he joined also. Domesticity was the routine that, now, he has to create for himself and that was, then, created for him.

Domesticity is a manifestation of love.

He vaguely recalls some of the older kindred arguing about it, as is their wont, as they shall do until time comes to an end.

Tenacity hums as droplets of water hiss, falling from the lid he covers the pan with, frying pancakes dry. In a bowl by his left arm, the apple sauce rests, reddish-yellow and sweet. Roy wants to reach out and kiss Tenacity’s shoulder blade, just to see what might happen, but he’s content to simply watch also, watch and listen and take everything in.

‘Any plans for today?’ he asks.

‘Cooking. Resting. Sleeping.’

‘Good. I like your plans.’

They return to bed after breakfast. Roy understands it might be uncomfortable with all the heat, but he keeps his head on Tenacity’s shoulder and Tenacity doesn’t tell him to move away.

They doze together.

***

The next day, the last day, once the worst of the heat has started fading, Roy takes a shower, scrubbing himself clean. He braids his hair tight. He decides to leave his haircut as it is, and only shaves his stubble. He leaves the bathroom. ‘Tenacity, you still have my short blue—’ He notices Tenacity staring. ‘Old Hound?’

Tenacity blinks, then looks away, sweeps his hair to the back of his head. ‘Sorry. One with the belt? Yeah. I’ll bring it to you.’

‘Thanks.’ He goes to the bedroom, patting himself dry, then puts on trousers. They are not his padded baggy pants, but leather, closer to his skin, and worn and familiar. He isn’t feeling comfortable enough without thick layers, despite the heat, and for this night, he needs to have a measure of comfort, of settledness in his own skin.

Tenacity brings the folded shirt. Roy asks him to leave for a bit, and Tenacity grabs his own clothes and disappears to the bathroom.

Roy picks the box and opens it, trying not to breathe. Inside, a mound of powder shimmers, mesmerising him for a few moments. Grey, white, pink, orange, crimson, green—metal powder of all kinds of alloys is here. He takes a scoopful, puts the box down carefully—and throws the powder into the air. It hangs, suspended in a cloud by his Technomancy, like a galaxy full of stars and countless worlds with them. Then, he steps into the cloud.

The powder settles on his skin without any glue—a small trick. It won’t be possible to wash it off without rough scrubbing, but he can simply reverse his field to push it off of his skin. Yet the custom says that not everything must be repelled, some must linger on a Technomancer’s body as a memento of the occasion the powder is put on for.

Since leaving the Source, he used the powder only three times, and now it feels appropriate to use it again. He adds, whenever possible, new metal particles to the box: the tiny specks he removes from Tenacity’s blades to keep them sharp, flecks from buildings, from Tenacity’s lairian, from the sands…

He closes the box. There is a small mirror on the wall, and he looks at his own reflection. His skin is not as though painted but as though sculpted from metals, swirling, changing, shimmering. Each scar rendered perfectly, each imperfection uncovered.

He puts on the shirt, wrapping it about himself and tying a simple knot, fixes the collar. The powder covers his neck partially, suggesting rather than exposing. Roy wonders whether Tenacity might notice. He most likely will.

Roy finds Tenacity still in the bathroom, combing his hair. Tenacity has dressed already: a crimson sleeveless shirt with an open collar, a leather skirt ending just below his knees. The shirt and skirt are unadorned, yet the colour, the lines give Tenacity a refined quality. He’s gorgeous.

Tenacity pauses in his combing, then resumes it, quick strokes making his wavy hair fall in heavy curls at his nape. ‘Ready, Roy?’

‘Yeah, I’m ready.’

‘Then let’s go.’

As soon as they are out, Roy feels attention.

He knows it’s not only his looks: it’s the gait he’s assumed, sure yet unhurried, it’s the air around him. He is a Technomancer, going to perform what only a Technomancer can, in the capacity of a Technomancer, even though the word might not even be uttered tonight.

The burden of duty lies heavy and makes him straighten his back.

There’s quite a gathering by Charity’s place, people all around the bar, spilt over the short bridge, on each step, on shacks. Holding lanterns, sitting by lanterns. They part before him. He catches the word ‘Venerable’ whispered.

He doesn’t go up to the gazebo but rather stops in the biggest clearing. He can hear more whispers, feels eyes on himself. Hears many heartbeats, and behind them, the ever-shifting sand. A string with lanterns hums above him.

He knows how to make his voice heard, though he won’t sermonise. He won’t tell them what they need, what they must do. He wants to give them something of his own—that is all.

He holds his hands in front of himself on the chest level, right palm covering the left but not pressing. He closes his eyes.

And sings.

It is not a song with a melody, but a sonification of this place, this moment: the heartbeats and breaths, the rumble of buildings, electric currents, thoughts making muscles contract—what he senses in ways they can’t, he gives to them back in sound, in humming and vocalising. He listens to himself, to the sensation of singing: in his chest, in his throat, in his bones, down to the tips of his fingers.

He allows light to bloom between his palms—and light blooms in all the lanterns around him as he lets sounds flow, himself only a conduit. Echoes come back to him—a chorus in the absence of his kindred. But he is never alone, not truly—he is part of everything, a vessel ever-filled and ever-flowing, the universe taking voice.

He doesn’t feel his own body anymore, not in its boundaries—it is blurred, connected to everything, part of everything. There is only the song, flowing and flowing and flowing and flowing.

Even when the last sound spills from his lips, he still feels it as it echoes back, resonating.

He takes a breath, allowing his hands fall to his sides and the charge to trickle down his fingers.

He is the centre of light.

He’s listening: to the hum of talks, the susurration of sands, the rumbles and whistles and whispers. Someone has brought him a drink, a tisane with spices. It smells warm.

Through his half-lowered eyelids, lantern flames glimmer like stars.

We flare, we flicker, we die, as the sayer said.

He will go down in a blaze—or perhaps, from his side of things, he will never flare out, as it is said that those like him, the Conduits, are eternal. As though stars that are too massive, they become black holes, bending time and space around themselves upon collapse. Which, as a metaphor, makes not much sense, seeing as massive stars change time and space already before they become black holes, and though it _is_ accurate on several levels, he isn’t sure about the overall sound of it. But Roy has always been too literal.

He listens to Tenacity’s heartbeat among many.

After this, there won’t be any doubt about what he is. And between this night and meeting one of his kindred, the Source will know he’s alive, that he comes to Shadowlair at least sometimes. He should start packing.

He opens his eyes.

Tenacity looks softer, honest in the lights of many lanterns. All other lighting is out for this night, only the warmth of flames bringing comfort. Tenacity watches him—then bends down, and his kiss is soft on Roy’s lips, his heartbeat overwhelming everything else. ‘Beautiful.’

He wonders, looking into Tenacity’s eyes, what the word refers to. Maybe everything.

‘You look like the statues.’ Tenacity tilts his head to the side. ‘But you are much better.’

‘Why?’

‘You are warm. Ready to leave, Roy?’

He’s always ready to leave. To run. As far as he can, into obscurity, into the blazing light. There is nothing for him here, he doesn’t _want_ to have anything here, or anywhere else. Yet he returns, tethered, echoes of his own voice finding him, lingering in the rocks, travelling with the shifting sands. He knows how it all works. But he can’t help wishing to leave, even though his vows—if nothing else—bind him.

Tenacity’s heartbeat calls to him, no matter how long the physical distance between them is.

He brushes Tenacity’s hand. ‘Will you take a light?’

Tenacity smiles. ‘I know where my home is without any lights if you guide me.’

Roy twines their fingers and leads him through the singing city.


End file.
